The Sight of Words
by Winter-sama
Summary: Very introspective, bordering on dark interpretation/continuation of the Reichenbach Fall. A story about the power of words and the ability to see. VERY Sherlolly - nothing explicit, but a rating on the high side of T, in my opinion.


_You were never at rest_

_You were always somewhere bound_

_But as for me, I'm the simple kind._

_I'll live and die in this town._

_And I know my home ain't big enough_

_That it would only keep you down_

_And I'd hate to see you caged_

_So all that I ask _

_Is you come say hi when you're around_

_It ain't much_

_But it's good enough for me._

_-Radical Face "The Moon is Down"_

* * *

Molly Hooper knew who she was. More importantly, she knew what she was. What she would always be. No more. No less.

_Mousy Molly_

She hated the name. Not because it wasn't true – because it was. She flew below the radar. She kept her head down. She didn't make a fuss. She didn't rock the boat.

She didn't see that as her weakness, but rather her strength. She held still while the world around her swayed and tipped. It was how she survived.

_At every single moment in one's life, one is what one is going to be, no less than what one has always been._

Her father had always loved Oscar Wilde, quoted him whenever the situation permitted it. That wasn't to say that he didn't resort to other equally famous wordsmiths to prove a point, if necessary, but he loved Wilde the most.

His favourite theme? Self-knowledge, of course.

_Obviously._

She snorted a bit at the thought. So alike.

"_You're a bit like my dad…_"

She'd told him that. At the time, she was referring to how he hid his pain, hid his emotions to protect those he cared about.

But truly, she'd meant it in a much broader sense. His thirst for knowledge. His need to throw that knowledge back at those around him to make a point. His ability to discern everyone and everything around him, pick it apart, examine it, lay it bare.

She sighs softly, quietly observing his rapt form on her sofa from the safety of her kitchen.

It was all very Freudian sometimes.

In the end, however, the two men were still quite different.

Her father emphasized knowledge of oneself over all else.

_Know thyself_

Next to good ole' Oskie, it was the most oft repeated sentence in their home growing up. From some temple in Greece, he'd told her, ancient knowledge. 'Must be good advice then' she'd quipped back whenever he retold it.

Despite the lighthearted replies and the affectionate roll of the eyes, however, Molly took all of her father's lessons to heart. She constantly looked back at herself, her motives, her actions, her role in any event that she influenced in some small way.

'Or big way' she muses, looking again at the man who has not turned his attention from her laptop, her cat Toby curled up under his arm oblivious to the motion of his typing, the telly blaring some sort of rubbish in the background.

She knows him too, whether he likes it or not.

"_You look sad, when you think he can't see you."_

"_You can see me."_

"_I don't count."_

She could see that she'd surprised him, really surprised him. If not for the situation, she might have laughed, even reveled in it a bit. He could certainly see those around him, but he couldn't see himself. At least, not as clearly as she saw him. As clearly as she'd always seen him.

"_You see but you don't observe_."

He observed, but he couldn't see.

When he'd come to her that night asking for her help, asking if she would help him, even if he was a fraud, she'd wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. She knew him better than he knew himself. He wasn't a fraud, and never could be. He manipulated her with compliments. Told her what he thought she needed to hear to get what he wanted out of her. She knew what he was doing. She let him do it because let her see his smile, even if it wasn't genuine.

She let him think that she didn't know. That she couldn't see.

"_What do you need?"_

He'd explained his plan to her then, explained that he needed to die to finish the 'Final Problem'. He'd been completely exposed to her then. She could see his every thought and emotion more clearly than she'd ever seen it. She could see his pain. She could see his resolve. She could see his fear.

"'I will show you fear in a handful of dust'" she'd quoted.

"What?" his eyes had widened in confusion, the light catching on the gleam of unshed tears and raw emotion.

"T.S. Elliot" had been her only answer.

He'd narrowed his eyes at her, trying to see her, to truly see her, likely for the first time.

They'd gone about their plan, every detail calculated to the last second, both hoping they wouldn't be forced to go through with it, both knowing that they would.

When he'd left for the roof top, he'd paused just briefly at the door, turning suddenly, holding her eyes.

"Molly…"

"It has to be done," she'd replied, her voice steady, her eyes as bright as his, "it's the right thing."

She sees him then, sees him try to draw resolve from her own resolute stance. He nods once, lets loose a shaky breath, and is gone.

_You've always counted and I've always trusted you_.

It's been almost a week since he had 'died', a week during which neither has left her flat, except for her to attend his funeral. She's on bereavement leave from St. Barts. Someone needs to monitor him – he did jump off a six story building; no amount of planning allows one to escape that unscathed.

She hates what his 'death' has done to him. He's cut off from the game and it wears on him. He's bored. It wears on her - if she has to watch one more piece of rubbish reality shite on the telly, she might just finish him off herself.

"I can turn it off if it bothers you to the point of homicidal ideation."

She knows she hasn't spoken aloud, or even so much as sighed, but with little to nothing else to distract him, he's become remarkably adept at reading her every thought and gesture, though she's still not convinced that he sees her, not always.

He looks up at her from the laptop for the first time in hours; she's standing in the kitchen doorway, her cup of tea clutched in her hand, lukewarm, the corner of her lip raised in a small smirk. He slides the laptop on to the coffee table, looking up at her expectantly.

She pads over to the sofa, sitting next to him. She's not uncomfortable in his proximity – they've gone through far too much for that, she's just not certain what to say. The confines of her flat combined with his undivided attention and her own ability to read him like a book have left them with remarkably little to say to each other that could not be communicated with a look or brief gesture. Words have become specious between them, meretricious – they're not but pretty wrapping on otherwise meaningless tripe.

She feels his fingers under her chin, lifting her eyes to his.

"Molly, are you ok?"

_Don't just say that you are - I know what that means…looking sad when you think no one can see you._

"There is no happy ending, you know, not for us," she's trying to let him see her, she's begging him to see her, not just the bags under her eyes denoting her lack of sleep, of the pallor of her skin from lack of sunlight, the sag of her clothes on her shrinking body. She needs him to see _her_, and what she's done for him, what he's done to her.

He sighs, closes his steely eyes as his hands drift to her wrists, gently rolling his long fingers around the delicate bones. She feels him tug her gently and she drifts easily into his hold, her side pressed against his chest, her head in the crook of his neck, his left arm coming around her waist.

They stay like this for some time. Neither really knows how much time passes. Much like their words, time has lost so much meaning.

"'Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer –" she feels his lips moving against her temple.

"—recognize, protect and comfort each other'" she finishes softly.

"Han Suyin," he breathes softly.

She understands. He does see her then.

Their own words might have lost their meaning, but the words of others, those greater than both of them, can still bring them comfort. She understands now, her father's love of quotation.

He's standing now, drawing her up with him – leading her towards her room and the bed they've been sharing for the last six nights.

The first two nights she's awake every couple of hours, shaking him awake fearing he's succumbed to his concussion.

The third night she lies awake as he tosses and turns, muttering in his sleep. She holds him.

The fourth night it's her turn to toss about in the grips of her dreams. She feels the warmth of his own arms around her when she wakes up the next morning.

The fifth night they fall asleep, her back against his chest. Neither dreams.

Tonight she knows will be his last night with her. He's off to clear his name in the morning.

He's tender, if not inexperienced. It doesn't matter. He's watching her with eyes she's never seen. She knows he's truly seeing her for the first time. It breaks her heart.

They move together, communicating through whispers, breaths, sighs, touches. She's surprised to feel a wetness on her face – she's more surprised to find that it's not from her own tears. They both reach that place together, falling together in a tangle of limbs. She likes the weight of him on her, doesn't move to push him off. He wraps himself more tightly around her and they sleep for a time, coming together every few hours throughout the night, desperate for some small measure of comfort against the coming day.

He's still there in the daylight. She's not surprised. She knew he would stay until she woke. He owed her that. She needed it, and so did he.

"I will come back," he whispers into the side of her neck, "always."

She knows he will. She can see the truth of it in the set of his jaw, the grip of his arms. When he finally goes, she sees the weight of his decision pulling on his slender frame.

He does come back. He comes back when he needs her – needs her to patch him up, needs her to hold him, needs to hold her. He comes to her covered in blood - sometimes it's his, other times not. She doesn't ask, doesn't need to.

It's what they are.

Mycroft checks in with her occasionally. They don't speak much. A basic exchange of information really.

One afternoon, coming home from work, she's surprised to see him on her sofa. He's clutching his arm to his chest, sitting stiffly. Their eyes meet and she goes direct to the bath to collect her first aid kit.

She's wrapping his wrist after stitching a particularly nasty gash when he speaks for the first time.

"It's done."

Her head whips up, measuring the pained smile that graces his features. This one is genuine.

* * *

_**Thank you for reading! (if you're all indeed still with me).**_

**_Please let me know what you think. I feed off reviews. I truly do. Technically, my muse feeds off reviews. But seeing as I can't write without her, well, you guys get the drift ;)_**

**_I'll take the good, the bad, and the ugly! You can't improve if you don't know what's wrong :)_**


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